


My Own Tale

by 2babyturtles



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Alagaesia, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Eragon - Freeform, Fantasy, Gen, High Fantasy, Post-Canon, mostly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 09:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12554816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: I guess I should just get on with it. My story starts when I was born, of course, as all our stories do.





	My Own Tale

I wasn’t supposed to happen. I guess that makes my story ironic? Either way, it makes it a good one to tell, and no one minds too much if I do because all the other people in it are long dead. They weren’t kidding about the long lives of the Riders, and my story started many lifetimes ago in the eyes of the rest of the world. Except the elves of course.

If I had to guess, I’d say my dad was a soldier. That sounds bad, because we’ve all heard the horror stories that follow soldiers whenever they run through a new town, but my dad wasn’t like that. At least, not according to my mom. She was a gypsy. Later on, when people saw me, they’d say she was also a witch.

Can you tell I’m stalling?

I guess I should just get on with it. My story starts when I was born, of course, as all our stories do.

My mom had done her best to keep us out of the direct scrutiny of magic users, but never really told me why. Sort of makes me wonder if those accusations weren’t too far off, but I never saw her use any magic herself so it’s hard to imagine she could. Mom was massive when she was pregnant with me and it was impossible to pretend she wasn’t.

One night, when darkness landed and the stars were just starting to dance, Mom left. She never said where she left, so I suppose I don’t really know where I’m from, but it certainly wasn’t a safe place and I’m sure she never regretted the decision to leave. How she did it though is beyond me.

Rounder than a full moon, she stole a horse, covered its hooves with the sorts of socks that thieves know well, and galloped silently into the night. She knew the area well and was able to guide her horse with one hand while using the other to stabilize her belly. I’ve no doubt that it was the most unpleasant riding experience of her life, but it ultimately saved both of us.

I think she hoped to deliver me a few towns over, but nature worked its way against her and she gave birth along a riverbank. The water was freezing and probably was the only reason she survived. A fever struck early and we were both at risk of death until it suddenly broke. We must’ve been along the rivers for a long time because even now I have vague memories of gulping desperately from those same icy waters.

That’s how I learned to survive. We talked a lot and learned more. And I mean that. We both learned during that time. I learned to use a dagger as fast as I learned to talk, and we talked in the Ancient Language as often as the Common Tongue. I’m not sure what that means about my mom, but she certainly wasn’t the average human. Assuming, of course, that she was human.

I remember distinctly the day I learned what racism is.

 

There’s nothing boring about the wild, although I’ve since learned that not everyone feels that way. Something about the rolling hills and rushing waters always seemed to present a challenge to me. Like if I tried hard enough, I’d learn something new. That day, I would also learn something terrible.

We’d been cautioning the main roads more often, a special treat we’d indulged in since my mom had managed to find me my own horse. Most of the time, any other travelers we ran into assumed we were the sort of people who would stab as quickly as chat and left us alone. That day, though, a particularly brazen man decided he would strike up a conversation.

His horse was gorgeous and the rider suited it well. Golden brown and rippling with muscle, the stallion was a sight to behold. The man’s dark black hair and white skin was unlike anything I’d seen before and I couldn’t help admiring the way his blue eyes danced devilishly. I was young, but not so young that I didn’t understand the beauty before me, nor that he noticed my own.

I have never been plain. I wanted to be for a long time, when it would’ve been easier to disguise as a boy than risk a late night trip as a girl, or when a dashing young man would have the respect a pretty young woman could never earn. At that time, I kept my hair mostly up as a practicality, although it was often down when we were on the roads, as it was that day. It’s bright red and shines in the sun, a frustrating beacon when we were hiding. My eyes are the same color, although that color is called brown when it’s about eyes, and my face is sort of wide and flat.

Really, it wasn’t that I was beautiful, but that I wwas unique. I didn’t have the dark hair of the plains people, or the soft brown curls of those who lived nearer the Spine. I have softly pointed ears, a further reminder that my father was likely not human, as my mom’s were well rounded.

My mom was young when she gave birth to me but I was coming up on fourteen at that time, and the stress of a hard decade and a half had bore lines into my mom’s sweet face. Her smile was gentle, though, and she seemed like she always had a joke to tell.

The man who ventured to talk to us was all smiles when he saw us, and I didn’t know why it made me so uncomfortable. Still, he was so pleasant to look at that I didn’t care much. He didn’t wait long before jumping into his first line of inquiry: “You don’t have much on you so you can’t be headed far, but your faces tell me you’re well worn on these roads. Tell me, what business do two pretty ladies like yourselves have in the wilds of Alagäesia?” he teased, smiling as he gestured to our minimal loads.

The play was clever and I admired the man for his intelligence. Of course, my mom saw through it and was instantly cautious. “Ah, but what business does a man of your status have in the lives of others? I’ve no doubt you’re seeking earldom?”

If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he shifted his tone and backed up the conversation. “Lord Trim,” he offered through bared teeth. It was likely meant to look friendly, but his bubbling frustration was hard to disguise. He offered a hand to my mom, who merely smiled.

“Pleasure,” she responded, meeting his eyes with a level stare.

I should add here that it was my mom’s eyes that make me certain she wasn’t human. She had the most startling shade of violet eyes that changed color when she looked hard enough. If she wanted, they could almost pass for blue, and with her cloak up they usually did. But when she was looking hard at something they’d almost… _flash._ And then these violet orbs would be staring with such ferocity you’d be sure they could burn a hole right through the subject of her gaze.

Lord Trim was not impressed. “You’re one of those fuckin’ freaks, aren’t ya?” he suddenly demanded, practically growling as he withdrew his hand and steered his horse steadily away. I wasn’t sure why he was so afraid, but it should’ve been obvious to me. My mom was _dangerous._

Mom was silent and I was too shocked to break the tension myself. She simply turned her gaze ahead and looked onward like she would if it was just the two of us on the road and she was waiting for something interesting to teach me about. There was something menacing about her silence and the air around her seemed to crackle faintly, as if it were at the verge of tearing open and revealing something much more potent than the world we could see.

My eyes were glued to the man’s face and when he turned to look at me again, I was horrified by the disgust there. His pretty features were pulled into an expression I’d never seen before, and certainly not one that had ever adorned my mom’s face. He looked as likely to flee as to murder, and the bloodlust in his eyes was only vaguely marred by terror.

“Fuckin’ madcaps, the lot of you,” he snarled. “Shoulda burned you with those woods you love so much.” He kicked the sides of his stallion and those rippling muscles weren’t so pretty driving the pair away from us.

My mom sighed and pulled on her reins, putting a hand out to slow me down as well. Her eyes had faded again and there were no traces left of that cold smile. When she looked at me, there was an emotion I couldn’t identify plain as day across her face. It was something I hadn’t seen before and I cocked my head curiously at her. So much had happened so quickly and I understood very little of it.

I didn’t realize at the time that that was racism, of course, I learned that much later when I learned what ‘madcap’ means. I won’t repeat it here, but suffice to say it’s derogatory for a witch. As if witch wasn’t already derogatory? Whatever.

“Come,” my mom murmured, leading away off the road. As ever, the sound of rushing water was our guide, and we followed some tendril of water until we found the source.

“What was that?” I asked my mom eventually. It hadn’t probably been that long but it felt like it after so many questions had been running through my head. I searched her expression and decided she looked guilty. Or at least, like she felt she was guilty. I wondered if my eyes reflected any of the same power as my mom’s.

She didn’t answer until we’d stopped the horses and gotten off to go by foot. She looked at me with such a sad expression, I’m sure I’ll never forget it. Her mouth turned at the corners, but it wasn’t quite a frown. It was the sort of smile people use when they can’t make anything better. I didn’t know that at the time—I hadn’t met very many people—but I know it now, and I can’t help wishing I could go back and embrace my mom then.

She placed a hand on my cheek and I naturally sank into the warmth of her touch. “Nothing is ever easy,” she said finally. “But some people like to make it harder.”

“But why? Why did he react like that?” I was so arrogant. I thought I was entitled to an answer. Maybe I was, it was my life, too, after all. But I wasn’t entitled to my mom’s shame.

“Because we aren’t like him, and people are afraid of things they don’t understand. That is why it is so important that you keep learning, so you never have to be afraid. Then, if you are afraid, you know you have something left to learn.” Her eyes grew stern as she spoke and it was clear the conversation was shifting away from anything I might’ve pushed about. “So what’re we tracking?” she asked, pulling away from me and gesturing at the ground. “Find us our dinner and don’t you dare let me catch you.”

I raised an eyebrow and smirked, trying to resist the challenge. She knew this was my favorite game and that’s no doubt why she picked it, but I was also hungry and the tension in my limbs would be well spent on a hunt. “Are you sure, Momma?”

She winked and put her hands over her eyes. “One Alagäesia, two Alagäesia, three Alagäesia….”

I was gone before she got to four and well on the trail of a deer before she got to twenty-five. Of course, she didn’t actually count that high—she stopped at ten and began the pursuit—but I always kept counting. I wanted to know how fast I was, how much faster I’d gotten, and how much room I had to improve. I had no idea how much I would improve, of course, because I had no idea that I’d be a Rider. No one knows that until it happens.

 

That probably seems like such a small example, and like I said, I didn’t know what racism really meant at the time. But I learned a bit about what it feels like and what it looks like. That’s never left me, although I’d love to say it’s left Alagäesia. We all know that’s not true.

The funny thing, although it really isn’t so funny, is that it’s never really about what a person does or is, just about how they look. Because my mom had violet eyes, people thought she was a witch. If you ask some of the oldest Riders, they’ll tell you about the early days, when things were very much the same. Of course, now I can’t imagine all the Riders being human, but there was a day when the urgalagra and dwarves couldn’t be.

I was a new Rider when I asked Eragon-ebrithil about the famous Queen of Alagäesia, and he said she experienced a lot of the same things. Nasuada was good and pure and loving, but she had dark skin and a strong heart. There were a lot of reasons it was a relief when she finally slipped into the beyond, and Eragon always gets sad eyes when he talks about her. _Some people like to make it harder._

Of course, Nasuada wasn’t perfect. She didn’t understand magic and it scared her. She was afraid of power that she couldn’t have, and the powers of the Riders and of other magic users were exactly that. There was a dark period when she tried to block the people out, but by the time I came around, her rule had been long left in history and magic once again flourished in Alagäesia. Flourished too much, some would say, I’m sure.

My mom and I didn’t talk about Lord Trim again and honestly I’m surprised I even remember his name. But for a long time, Mom kept us moving to higher ground, where she eventually was able to scout out toward the north. With one small hand pressed to her brow, her eyes would alight and she would search hungrily for something that she never told me. I often wondered about the burnt woods Lord Trim had mentioned and wondered if she was looking for signs of them.

Eventually, when he had obtained a map of Alagäesia, I couldn’t help realizing that she always looked towards Du Weldenvarden when she did this. Some part of me trembled at the thought that she was looking for my father, and I made up stories to keep myself entertained when there were quiet periods. The Halfling daughter of a magic woman and an elven prince was a better story than the truth, although I had little inkling of what the truth was either.

It wasn’t long after that that my mom decided my education would be served well by a trip to a real city. We were close enough to Ilirea by that point that I wondered whether my mom only decided that because of our proximity, or whether the proximity was simply a happy coincidence. In either case, I couldn’t have asked for a better place to go than Ilirea.

 

It was midday when we approached, about two weeks after we’d met Lord Trim. We hoped sincerely that he’d gone another way, and we were lucky enough not to meet him when we arrived. Our saddle bags were loaded with fallen leaves and twigs to make them seem bulkier, and our blankets were folded all wrong so it looked like we had more provisions than we actually did. There’s something to be said for first impressions, and it was much better that we gave the right one.

In this case, it was extremely advantageous to simply look like two travelers from Dras-Leona or Bullridge. At the time, I had no idea what sort of things had happened in Dras-Leona, and I only learned much later, when I met Eragon-ebrithil. Still, Bullridge was along the river from the Isenstar lake and it was easier for us to say we’d come from the north anyway. It was also mostly true.

We approached Ilirea with some trepidation, although we’d trained hard to achieve a poise that gave none of it away. My mom’s cloak was down to avoid suspicion, but her dark hair tumbled around her face in rolling waves that were entirely too beautiful not to notice. This seemed strange to me until I realized that even I could hardly pay attention to her eyes for the shining black curls framing her face. I remember smirking when I understood.

My hair was up in a tight bun, and we hoped that I looked appropriately severe to avoid conversation. Of course, I also needed to look academic if we had any chance of getting me into the city’s libraries or archives. Lord Kearth was the Baron here, and although he was friendly enough, he was private. Access to scholarly items were generally public, and had been since Queen Nasuada’s reign, but it was important that we didn’t raise raise questions.

When the guards waved us through the gates with small questions in their eyes, I didn’t understand that I was different. My education was different. My gaze raked across the sights that assaulted me and I realized that most people lived in places like this, rather than on the road like I did.

A woman with her own set of dark curls strolled past us with an alluring smile and I cocked my head at her, wondering at the way she eyed the guards as she walked by. My mom smiled, enjoying my curiosity although not sating it. At the time, I wasn’t sure if my mom was familiar with this city in particular or if all cities were built similarly enough that she could figure out how to get where we were going. Now, I know better, but I never had the chance to ask about her history with Ilirea.

I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes focused anywhere for long with so many interesting sights begging for my attention. Beyond that, there were the smells. Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way a city smells. There’s a stagnancy that develops within city walls that isn’t quite like the stale air of old keeps, but it’s certainly not as fresh as the cool breeze and hot sun would make you think.

Ilirea smelled—and probably still smells—like luck. Like the _aha!_ moment of an old scholar, poring over a tome and finally finding the passage she needs, and all the dust that plumes as she blows the page clean. It’s like the nervous sweat that builds on the brows of gambling men when they throw a set of dice, and the delicious smirk and scent of spiced apple perfume that lingers after a stolen kiss in an alley. Ilirea has always been a monument to development and power and that hasn’t changed in the centuries since its founding.

My mom continued to smirk and I was grateful my horse had the sense to follow our companions since I was certainly not focused on where we were going. As with every other lesson, my mom had apparently decided that I should dive right into my social education as well. She clucked at our horses and pulled gently on her reins, urging us to a stop outside an inn. The raucous pouring from the windows was impressive, although a bit surprising considering the time of day. Still, I wasn’t thinking so much about the daytime drinking habits of the occupants, as much as the sheer volume of it all.

“What’re we doing?” I asked, hoping my expression wasn’t as shocked as I’m certain it was.

My mom raised an eyebrow at me, a challenge plain in her face. She almost seemed excited, which surprised me. “I thought you might want a drink,” she laughed, sliding off the side of her horse and leading it to a post outside the inn. There were only a few other horses tied here, a clear indication that the drunks inside were residents of Ilirea. Boded well for the quality of the booze, I suppose.

I sighed and followed suit. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling but it certainly wasn’t comfortable. I had assumed the continuation of my education involved some social element, but certainly not like this. When I was finished tying up my own horse, my mom looked me over and put her hands on my shoulders, peering at me with a significant gaze.

“Never for a moment ever believe you are less because you are female,” she said firmly, her voice sharper than usual. “However, if you wish to engage with society you must either bow to it, or overcome it. Today, we will bow to it. Later, you can decide whether you like how it feels.”

She released me when she was satisfied I understood—although I didn’t, of course—and set about tugging her hair into more manageable waves. I offered a questioning glance and she shook her head. “Leave yours up,” she decided.

“Do all women think so hard before they go for beer?” I grumbled, allowing my nerves to come out in grumbles.

My mom laughed, the high, free bell-tone she used when something really struck her as funny. “When did you start thinking we were like all women?” she smirked. Not waiting for a response, she grabbed me by the arm and led me inside.

Again, the smells were the first thing that really hit me. Sure the damp, musty air against my skin, the heavy darkness pierced by stabs of sunlight through the window, and the clashing bouts of music and conversation hit me, too. But the smell was the worst.

The heavy odor of sweat and the sting of drinks I’d never had before were overwhelming. I hadn’t ever considered that different kinds of sweat smell differently, and this wasn’t a pleasant way to learn. Sweat from fear smells sour, sweat from exertion smells like a warm body, but sweat from a dirty crowd smells like lies. I’ll let you decide for yourself it that’s what you think, too.

In any case, this was not a place I could imagine wanting to spend much time, and my first sip of beer reinforced that idea. My mom looked satisfied, so I can trust it was good quality, but my goodness. I’ll stick with wine and water thank you very much.

We sat at the bar with an extra seat between us and other patrons on either side, and my mom ordered a pint for us to share. The man on the other side of the counter brought us the beverage and held out a hand for the payment, a fair few more coins than I thought it was strictly worth. My mom drank first, taking a long draw from the golden liquid.

“That’s pretty good,” she decided happily, passing it to me. I wondered not for the first time what her life had been like before I’d been in it, and couldn’t help wishing I had any way to find out without asking her directly; she never answered those sorts of questions. Taking a small sip, I did my best not to spit back in the cup.

Bitter and warm, it tasted more like the way urine smells than like anything I’d want to drink. My eyes were watering when I looked up at my mom, who was laughing again. She took the beer back from me and finished it in just a couple more swigs. By the time she was done, she’d managed to garner the attention of more than one person in the room.

“So much for bowing low,” I grumbled, eyeing her as she ordered some warm bread for us.

A man approached from my mom’s other side, his scarred hands and face evidence of some sort of hard work, although the girth of his belly told me it couldn’t have been very active. His sweaty mop of hair was pushed back into what he must’ve thought was an attractive style, although his blistered nose and pocked skin was enough to spoil the effect. That is, if the rest of his appearance and smell hadn’t already.

“What’s a lady like you got to forget that could bring you to drink like that?” he coaxed, smiling gruffly at my mom.

“Must we drink to forget? Perhaps I’m hoping to remember,” she responded. She glanced at me with a smirk and I had no doubt she meant it—she was remembering a life she’d long since given up.

Her merriment confused me, and I suddenly wondered if I was supposed to show the same sort of behavior. I sat up straighter in my chair and she shook her head infinitesimally at me. My eyebrows sank, confused, as I watched her turn back to the man vying for her attention.

“Aw, either way look backing is no fun. Look at the right now,” he laughed, gesturing wide to the gross room we were in. I grimaced, not appreciating the reminder of my surroundings. “What’s not to love?”

My mom smirked again and suddenly leaned forward to kiss the man on the cheek. “It’s been a long time, Rupert,” she smiled.

“Too long,” he agreed, dipping his head politely. “And who’s this lass?” He leaned his massive head around my mother to look at me with a gentle sort of curiosity. I appreciated that his eyes remained fixed on my face as he waited for a response.

“That’s Yilmi,” my mother responded before I could. I was surprised that she gave the man my real name, although it didn’t register with me since I was still reeling from their last exchange. “My daughter.”

“Oho!” Rupert crowed, leaning back as if this information was the last thing he was expecting. “Now tell me, Maris, how would you have made a daughter?”

I cocked my head at the same time my mom’s expression flitted momentarily into a warning. I wasn’t sure I’d even really seen it and by the time I blinked, it was gone. Rupert seemed to have gotten the idea, though, and changed his trail just as fast.

“Either way, she’s a beaut’, just like her mother. Did you really wanna spend the night here or would you be fine with some better entertainment?” he suggested instead.

Part of me wanted to laugh at his comment. I was certainly _not_ anything like my mother, and not even really beautiful. I supposed that maybe the dingy bar lighting was playing with his vision and ignored the compliment. My mom raised an eyebrow at me, evidently interested by my decision not to respond. I shrugged and she turned back to Rupert with a delicate smile.

“We came here to find you, goose,” Mom said. “Lead the way.”

We followed him outside and I was unsurprised to find that he did not have a horse tied with the rest. If my mom knew he’d be here, he must not have come from very far. Since she’d never mentioned him that I knew of and hadn’t really met anyone since I was born, I could only assume he didn’t ever go very far at all.

We untied our horses and guided them by the reins through the busy streets of Ilirea. I was surprised to realize we must’ve been inside longer than I thought when I noticed the shadows on the ground. When my mom noticed my focus, she pointed towards the nearest city wall, where its height blocked out most of the sun even though the sun wasn’t very low. I must’ve made a face because my mom laughed again before turning to Rupert.

“So where are we headed?” she asked lightly, looping an arm comfortably through one of his.

He seemed to swell at the touch and puffed out his chest brilliantly. “I have a home now, Maris, just like I always said I would.” His eyes were ages deep and I wondered how long they’d known each other.

“The fantasies of youth,” she replied carefully. “I’m glad one of us got to achieve them.”

Rupert frowned but dropped the subject, deciding instead to fulfill the role of guide for us—or, more specifically, for me.

“You probably know that Ilirea wasn’t always called that,” he began dramatically, gesturing at the high steeples that spiraled above the rest of the city. Even from there, I could see the immortalized scars in the roves, memories of the dragon talons that had once ripped through the area. “As Urû’baen, this city saw only darkness. In the last few hundred years since then, it’s hardly stopped celebrating its freedom. As much as it’s known for its history with the elves and Riders, Ilirea is one of the greatest academic hubs of the human world as well.”

I remember being surprised that he specified which population it was the hub of. Curiosity flashed through me, wondering about the scholarly works of other populations. Now, I can only look back and laugh at how much has changed since then. Of course, I had no way of knowing that I’d become what I am now.

“Since Galbatorix was slain, we have little enough to be sad about and you probably noticed that most people have littler still of those on their mind,” he continued, nodding at a particularly friendly woman as she walked by, her lips painted red with some sort of dye. “But my favorite thing about Ilirea is the _personal_  side of things.”

Rupert’s smile was almost arrogant as he led us between two buildings and through a curtain of vines. I had another one of those “are all cities like this?” moments before deciding that no, nowhere in the world could be quite like this.

Every shade of every color was represented by the array of storefronts and passer-by that greeted us when we emerged from the alley. Cloaks of purple and tight-fitted gowns of gold were commonplace and the array of people dressed as royalty was astonishing. Of course, it had been a long time since our Alagäesia royalty had worn anything like this. Our king was far too old and far too senile to care much what he looked like. Here, it seemed everyone was just as indifferent.

There was no showmanship among the shoppers, residents, and general population, and everyone seemed to truly dress the way that pleased them. The storefronts, too, were designed not to attract, but to explain. It was easy to tell precisely what any one store would be like inside, because its outside was exactly the same. One store had such an array of wild plants growing out the windows that I hesitated to even imagine the dangers that lurked beyond the steaming green vines. Another was draped in so much fabric and an assortment of baubles that could rival even the wealthiest woman’s.

It was beautiful. All of it was perfectly, unbelievably beautiful.

“What do you think?” Rupert asked, interrupting my reverie. I hadn’t even noticed that we were still walking until we stopped. When I looked up, he was gesturing to a teetering white house that seemed almost to be carved into a stone more than built from any. “Beautiful enough?” he questioned, winking at me. For a moment, I wondered if he could read minds, although I quickly decided that that was silly.

Yeah, I still laugh at that, too.


End file.
